Stillness of Time
by ActionAimz
Summary: Second person study of Ana Lucia's thoughts in Sawyer afterglow


**Stillness of Time**

_Characters: Ana Lucia and Sawyer_

_Description: Sana one shot. A little exercise in second person, that person being the great Ana Lucia._

_I kind of own Sawyer in the biblical sense, but I disclaim_

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You pretend not to notice as he plays with your gnarled curls. Through hazy vision you spot his shadow giant against the tarp, one arm propped under him, the other lifting strands of hair, twirling locks of it around his fingers as if he is examining the length of each overgrown trendle. You pretend not to care nor acknowledge that Sawyer, of all creatures, is doing the post-sex touchy-freely thing men sometimes do when they become fixated on a strange part of your anatomy.

Your hair fascinates him for what seems like an eternity, and you have to not move and barely breathe and pretend you are sound asleep. Pretend you don't smell his sweat, that his essence doesn't completely saturate you, and he's not everywhere all at once. Pretend you don't like this.

You are sleeping, yes. And it's the only reason why you haven't left his hut, walking away satisfied yet convincing yourself that sex didn't really happen, only it really did. Despite your vows of 'never again' it always repeats, compulsively habitual.

He's done with your hair now and begins smoothing his palm along the front of your arm, grazing your breast like the hypnotic ebb and flow of ocean waves. Your back's to him so you can't witness that sated grin on full display. The one that looks like he just lapped you up and swallowed you whole. That smile kills you.

Limbs intertwined in a threadbare sheet, he's rubbing his bare leg against your side. His movements are strategically mindless. You want him to stop doing this, because the hairs on his shins tease at your flesh, swirling shivers through your body with relentless velocity. It makes you scream inside. His thigh is as large as two of yours, you notice. The thought makes you bear down and curl your toes. He forewarned you that sex with him would curl toes. You've made him prove it, repeatedly.

"You ain't leaving yet Muchacha?"

His voice sounds weak and haggard, it's tone sweeter without the biting sarcasm.

You moan and groan and put on a show, as if you are angry he woke you from deep slumber to ask an obvious question to which you simply answer, "yea."

But you don't move.

He clears his throat. A second of silence is your cue to speak. What's to say? Nothing.

"Not that I wanna get rid of ya. But normally you're high tailing your sweet ass outta here before I can ask for seconds."

Hmph. You snort to yourself, because in all certainty on the other side of the world, he was probably the guy to crawl out of the 'good-time girl's' bed quicker than anything, forgetting her name that he never intended to store in memory anyway. With you, the tables will remain turned. Sawyer who?

"Allrighty then," he spits out grogilly. You ignore him.

"It's all dark and scary out there now Dorothy. You missed the last train out of Oz so guess you're staying put. Mi casa es su casa and all that sh-t." He stretches and yawns and resumes touching you. Everywhere all at once. "So you can continue on makebelievin' you're asleep and just let me have my way with ya -- without a rumble."

"That ain't gonna happen," you mumble nearly inaudibly with your lips mashed into your arm, tasting the salt of your own sweat. And his. You manage to throw one of his hands off you. He puts it back right where it was. He's so fecking clever and cocksure. So fecking clever to think that his calloused hands palming your breast and moving between your legs is going to make you succumb to his will. Your throat is too raw and parched to speak clearly and inform him that he's not as swift as you. And you ask yourself why 'you ain't gone yet'. You question your own sanity.

"What was that sweet cheeks? What ain't gonna happen? Nuthing that ain't already."

His breath is hot on your neck. You can't deny his movements are lulling you into a calm. You need the stilling calm sometimes, here on island hell more than ever.

You sigh, while he amuses himself, and give yourself ten seconds to get up. At nine seconds and counting, he pecks his lips against your shoulder blade. So lightly stealing a kiss as if he doesn't want you to notice. But you do. You feel him tug at the sheet. As he shakes it out, he showers you with grains of sand that stick to your moistened flesh. The rough linen falls neatly over your body. Too neatly.

At three seconds you roll over and lay flat on a bed of sand, pressing you legs tightly together, staying nicely tucked-in under the sheet. You're safe here. You're alive.

He's crawled to the edge of the hut and seems to be searching around for something lost. The moonlight seeps in and cuts across the planes of his torso, tanned and sinew. He looks golden with his back to you, deceptively so. So deceptive to think you can wrap yourself in him and make time disappear.

His little makeshift living area is filled to the brim with stolen goods. You figure you are the only island girl to have seen the inside of this place so close and personal -- convince yourself of it. Convince yourself of alot of things lately. Like everything is of your choosing except nothing really is. Control's fleeting. You laugh cynically under your breath at this man's need to hoard, to hold onto whatever he could grab and claim as his own. A gun, a bottle of aspirin . . . you. Never you.

"Water. Heads up."

Before you can waken your reflexes, a bottle of water flies through the air, slipping through your fingers and landing with a thud on your chest like a lead weight. "Ow. sh-t man." You whine then bite your lip to keep from cursing at him like a sailor. But the expletives spill out anyway.

"Well you were suppose to catch that, " he says with all the defeated seriousness of a disappointed child -- as if he's playing a game of which you refuse to participate.

"As if simply handing it to me wasn't an option." You feel your brows furrow, while chugging on water, but are secretly pleased that his poor manners maybe just heightened the impetus to 'hightail it'.

"Aww well I'm awfully sorry ma'am," he says with an over-abundance of what you figure is Southern charm. The plantation owner vibe should be lost on a girl from el barrio if not highly inappropriate. But then again there are alot of things that should be, but aren't. And here anything goes.

"Please accept my due apologies. Is there any way I can make it up?" The dimples make an appearance in full force. He leans in close and trickles his fingertips over your chest, teasing at the sheet that's covering you. "Betcha I can conjure up a few ways."

He is sickenly playful. His blue eyes sear into your core, so intensely trained on you. Like a skilled predator, he has you trapped before you know it. You feel like there is nothing and no one else in existence. No way out.

"Just wanted to make sure you stay properly hydrated sweetheart," he growls while raking his hand along your inner thigh.

"Skip it, okay," you warn with an eye roll and a warmth in the pit of your stomach. You press your legs together as tight as you can. Your thigh muscles, a temporary chastity belt.

"Damnit woman, I love it when you pout." Those words drip from his tongue so smoothly.

You try your best not to pout.

He's starting to love things about you. So predictable. Next, he'll be wanting strolls on the beach holding hands, put you on display like some damn trophy. You're not a prize. You're not Kate.

"God help me," he rasps against your mouth before suckling at your lower lip.

God help us all.

He told you tonight to stop with the lame excuses to come around him. If you wanted some of 'Sawyer' all you needed to do was ask. He speaks that way sometimes, growling at you, referring to himself in third person as if everything about 'Sawyer' was a fabrication removed from the real him. Whoever that was.

Sawyer and the Muchacha. The cop and the con. A perfect little package in a sea of chaos. Things here will never be that cute. If you beat your fists on his chest, and kick and resist, and cuss and call him names it will never fall into cute. It can't.

You feel a moan escaping the back of your throat. His hand is nearing your crotch. Your hands are searching for something to hold and grasp. He's searching for any opening he can find. As he doubles in size against your hip, you open your mouth, spread your legs wide against the sand, buck against his palm, let him in.

He's screwing you slow and gently, sweeter than ever, because you are letting him. Allowing him to do this thing called making love. For what seems like forever now he's holding you at the edge, drugging you, not letting you go tumbling over until he's ready. You arch your back against sand. Clutch at his shoulder blades and cry out for him. You won't beg , you demand it. "Come on. Now." He releases you and your vision explodes into a million shards of light.

He falls on you with all his weight and you want to throw him off and curse at him for doing that to you. But you haven't the strength now. It's like pushing at a brick wall, the same one you've been banging your head against. He wraps himself around you so securely that your face is burrowed in his heaving chest. He lifts you chin and starts gently kissing the side of your face, stubble rough against your cheek. Caressing your lower back, he whispers in your ear something about your skin being so damned smooth. You let him say what he needs to. You're not really comprehending any sounds but the ocean waves and his heart thumping against your ear.

The wind picks up velocity, the eerinees of it predicts a storm. It rustles the tarp and whistles through the cracks of airplane scraps. In your hut any strange sound makes your heart pound, sending your survival adrenaline into overdrive. Back there you are alone with a hand on the trigger and one eye open always, always vigilant. You can never sleep.

He holds you tighter. The stillness of time keeps you here. You sleep. For real.

You're fresh out of excuses to come around here. In your dreams you'll invent some more.

-end-

**Stillness of Time**

Sana one shot

A little exercise in second person, that person being the great Ana Lucia.

This is most definitely pushing the envelope R.

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You pretend not to notice as he plays with your gnarled curls. Through hazy vision you spot his shadow giant against the tarp, one arm propped under him, the other lifting strands of hair, twirling locks of it around his fingers as if he is examining the length of each overgrown trendle. You pretend not to care nor acknowledge that Sawyer, of all creatures, is doing the post-sex touchy-freely thing men sometimes do when they become fixated on a strange part of your anatomy.

Your hair fascinates him for what seems like an eternity, and you have to not move and barely breathe and pretend you are sound asleep. Pretend you don't smell his sweat, that his essence doesn't completely saturate you, and he's not everywhere all at once. Pretend you don't like this.

You are sleeping, yes. And it's the only reason why you haven't left his hut, walking away satisfied yet convincing yourself that sex didn't really happen, only it really did. Despite your vows of 'never again' it always repeats, compulsively habitual.

He's done with your hair now and begins smoothing his palm along the front of your arm, grazing your breast like the hypnotic ebb and flow of ocean waves. Your back's to him so you can't witness that sated grin on full display. The one that looks like he just lapped you up and swallowed you whole. That smile kills you.

Limbs intertwined in a threadbare sheet, he's rubbing his bare leg against your side. His movements are strategically mindless. You want him to stop doing this, because the hairs on his shins tease at your flesh, swirling shivers through your body with relentless velocity. It makes you scream inside. His thigh is as large as two of yours, you notice. The thought makes you bear down and curl your toes. He forewarned you that sex with him would curl toes. You've made him prove it, repeatedly.

"You ain't leaving yet Muchacha?"

His voice sounds weak and haggard, it's tone sweeter without the biting sarcasm.

You moan and groan and put on a show, as if you are angry he woke you from deep slumber to ask an obvious question to which you simply answer, "yea."

But you don't move.

He clears his throat. A second of silence is your cue to speak. What's to say? Nothing.

"Not that I wanna get rid of ya. But normally you're high tailing your sweet ass outta here before I can ask for seconds."

Hmph. You snort to yourself, because in all certainty on the other side of the world, he was probably the guy to crawl out of the 'good-time girl's' bed quicker than anything, forgetting her name that he never intended to store in memory anyway. With you, the tables will remain turned. Sawyer who?

"Allrighty then," he spits out grogilly. You ignore him.

"It's all dark and scary out there now Dorothy. You missed the last train out of Oz so guess you're staying put. Mi casa es su casa and all that shit." He stretches and yawns and resumes touching you. Everywhere all at once. "So you can continue on makebelievin' you're asleep and just let me have my way with ya -- without a rumble."

"That ain't gonna happen," you mumble nearly inaudibly with your lips mashed into your arm, tasting the salt of your own sweat. And his. You manage to throw one of his hands off you. He puts it back right where it was. He's so fecking clever and cocksure. So fecking clever to think that his calloused hands palming your breast and moving between your legs is going to make you succumb to his will. Your throat is too raw and parched to speak clearly and inform him that he's not as swift as you. And you ask yourself why 'you ain't gone yet'. You question your own sanity.

"What was that sweet cheeks? What ain't gonna happen? Nuthing that ain't already."

His breath is hot on your neck. You can't deny his movements are lulling you into a calm. You need the stilling calm sometimes, here on island hell more than ever.

You sigh, while he amuses himself, and give yourself ten seconds to get up. At nine seconds and counting, he pecks his lips against your shoulder blade. So lightly stealing a kiss as if he doesn't want you to notice. But you do. You feel him tug at the sheet. As he shakes it out, he showers you with grains of sand that stick to your moistened flesh. The rough linen falls neatly over your body. Too neatly.

At three seconds you roll over and lay flat on a bed of sand, pressing you legs tightly together, staying nicely tucked-in under the sheet. You're safe here. You're alive.

He's crawled to the edge of the hut and seems to be searching around for something lost. The moonlight seeps in and cuts across the planes of his torso, tanned and sinew. He looks golden with his back to you, deceptively so. So deceptive to think you can wrap yourself in him and make time disappear.

His little makeshift living area is filled to the brim with stolen goods. You figure you are the only island girl to have seen the inside of this place so close and personal -- convince yourself of it. Convince yourself of alot of things lately. Like everything is of your choosing except nothing really is. Control. You laugh cynically under your breath at this man's need to hoard, to hold onto whatever he could grab and claim as his own. A gun, a bottle of aspirin . . . you. Never you.

"Water. Heads up."

Before you can waken your reflexes, a bottle of water flies through the air, slipping through your fingers and landing with a thud on your chest like a lead weight. "Ow. Shit man." You whine then bite your lip to keep from cursing at him like a sailor. But the expletives spill out anyway.

"Well you were suppose to catch that, " he says with all the defeated seriousness of a disappointed child -- as if he's playing a game of which you refuse to participate.

"As if simply handing it to me wasn't an option." You feel your brows furrow, while chugging on water, but are secretly pleased that his poor manners maybe just heightened the impetus to 'hightail it'.

"Aww well I'm awfully sorry ma'am," he says with an over-abundance of what you figure is Southern charm. The plantation owner vibe should be lost on a girl from el barrio if not highly inappropriate. But then again there are alot of things that should be, but aren't. And here anything goes.

"Please accept my due apologies. Is there any way I can make it up?" The dimples make an appearance in full force. He leans in close and trickles his fingertips over your chest, teasing at the sheet that's covering you. "Betcha I can conjure up a few ways."

He is sickenly playful. His blue eyes sear into your core, so intensely trained on you. Like a skilled predator, he has you trapped before you know it. You feel like there is nothing and no one else in existence. No way out.

"Just wanted to make sure you stay properly hydrated sweetheart," he growls while raking his hand along your inner thigh.

"Skip it, okay," you warn with an eye roll and a warmth in the pit of your stomach. You press your legs together as tight as you can. Your thigh muscles, a temporary chastity belt.

"Damnit woman, I love it when you pout." Those words drip from his tongue so smoothly.

You try your best not to pout.

He's starting to love things about you. So predictable. Next, he'll be wanting strolls on the beach holding hands, put you on display like some damn trophy. You're not a prize. You're not Kate.

"God help me," he rasps against your mouth before suckling at your lower lip.

God help us all.

He told you tonight to stop with the lame excuses to come around him. If you wanted some of 'Sawyer' all you needed to do was ask. He speaks that way sometimes, growling at you, referring to himself in third person as if everything about 'Sawyer' was a fabrication removed from the real him. Whoever that was.

Sawyer and the Muchacha. The cop and the convict. A perfect little package in a sea of chaos. Things here will never be that cute. If you beat your fists on his chest, and kick and resist, and cuss and call him names it will never fall into cute. It can't.

You feel a moan escaping the back of your throat. His hand is nearing your crotch. Your hands are searching for something to hold and grasp. He's searching for any opening he can find. As he doubles in size against your hip, you open your mouth, spread your legs wide against the sand, buck against his palm, let him in.

He's screwing you slow and gently, sweeter than ever, because you are letting him. Allowing him to do this thing called making love. For what seems like forever now he's holding you at the edge, drugging you, not letting you go tumbling over until he's ready. You arch you back against sand. clutch at his shoulder blades and cry out for him. You won't beg for him, you demand it. "Come on now." He releases you and your vision explodes into a million shards of light.

He falls on you with all his weight and you want to throw him off and curse at him for doing that to you. But you haven't the strength now. It's like pushing at a brick wall, the same one you've been banging you head against. He wraps himself around you so securely that your face is burrowed in his chest. He lifts you chin and starts gently kissing the side of your face, stubble rough against your cheek. Caressing your lower back, he whispers in your ear something about your skin being so damned smooth. You let him say what he needs to. You're not really comprehending any sounds but the ocean waves and his heart thumping against your ear.

The wind picks up velocity, the eerinees of it predicts a storm. It rustles the tarp and whistles through the cracks of airplane scraps. In your hut any strange sound makes your heart pound, sending your survival adrenaline into overdrive. Back there you are alone with a hand on the trigger and one eye open always, always vigilant. You never can sleep.

He holds you tighter. The stillness of time keeps you here. You sleep. For real.

You're fresh out of excuses to come around here. In your dreams you'll invent some more.

-end-


End file.
